Premonition
by yayfornonsense
Summary: "Do you believe in premonitions?"


I promise, this started out happy. Really. Then my friend Mademoiselle Angst took over and turned it into this monster and... I don't even know. I'm actually really unsure about this so I would appreciate any and or all reviews. Criticism/feedback is gladly welcomed.

* * *

_The best thing about dreams is that fleeting moment, when you are between asleep and awake, when you don't know the difference between reality and fantasy, when for just that one moment you feel with your entire soul that the dream is reality, and it really happened._

_- Unknown_

_

* * *

_

At half past two in the morning, on a blustery Saturday in November, Dr. Gillian Foster awakes with a start.

Something has startled her awake; she doesn't know what, but she recognizes the feeling, like being woken by her alarm clock on the weekdays. Outside, the wind howls, though rain has yet to come. Gillian sits up and rubs her temples, trying to figure out what could have made her wake so suddenly. It doesn't make sense, and she is so tired that she is getting more confused by the minute. She drops back onto her pillow and lies still.

Then she hears a sound coming from the guest room across the hall.

Her heart pounding, Gillian slowly slips out of bed and walks to her doorway, where she pauses, eyeing the closed door of the spare room suspiciously. A thump issues from behind the door, followed by a small wail. Gillian frowns and raps her fingernails against the doorframe. Then, with a sudden burst of bravery, (coming perhaps, from her feet, which are turning colder by the minute and longing for the warmth of her bed) she opens the spare room door and falls in upon a strange scene:

Her business partner and best friend, Cal Lightman, is standing by the window, his back turned to the doorway. He is clad only in his pajamas: sweatpants and a t-shirt; his hair sticks up at odd angles. He is bouncing back and forth gently from foot to foot and making soft hushing noises.

And in his arms is a small, fluffy pink bundle, which seems to be the source of most of the noise.

"Cal?" Gillian whispers questioningly, her breath sucking in sharply. Her voice is hoarse and raspy from sleep. She clears her throat and repeats herself. "Cal?"

Cal turns around, a half-grin on his sleepy face. "Hey Gill, I was hoping you'd sleep through this one. I know you must be exhausted."

"I…" Gillian starts, disconcerted by Cal's nonchalance, "This one?"

"Yeah, you know, the feeding. Although," Cal continues, moving closer, still swaying rhythmically, "I think she just got frightened by all the wind."

Gillian swallows convulsively. "Who did?"

Cal frowns, concern playing across his features. "Claire, darling. Who did you think I meant?"

Gillian buries her face against one hand, trying to think. This is a dream. It has to be. There is no other alternative except… insanity. And she doesn't really like that option.

"Gillian, are you alright? What's wrong, love?"

Cal's anxious voice breaks through her thoughts. Gillian looks up at him to see worry lines growing thick and deep in his brow. He has switched positions so that the baby (oh my god, the _baby_) is curled against his chest, her sweet face puckered up with sleep.

"This… this is a dream," Gillian mutters, more to herself than to Cal. She backs into the hallway, Cal's worried face following her into the shadows. She leans against the wall and shuts her eyes, reciting the list in her head:

_Ways to wake yourself up from a dream:_

_1) Try to realize that you are, in fact, dreaming_

_2) Attempt to manipulate your dream_

_3) Wake up if you cannot change the dream_

Gillian is halfway through the list when a wail cuts into her stream of consciousness. Then, she reacts so immediately that she surprises herself. She pushes open the spare room door again, walks to the crib in the corner, and pulls the fussy infant into her arms.

"Gill?" Cal is still anxious; he leans against the crib railing, searching her features.

But Gillian isn't paying any attention. She is more focused on the baby in her arms. Claire (isn't that what he called her?) has big blue eyes and Cal's nose and the slightest wisp of brown hair. She is tiny and solid and beautiful and so, so _real_. It makes Gillian sad and happy all at the same time, the emotions washing over her in an overwhelming rush. And without knowing exactly why, she begins to cry. Her lips pressed together tightly in a thin line, her knuckles white as she clutches the baby, she lets the tears roll down her cheeks and into Claire's soft pink blanket.

"Gillian?" Cal whispers, brushing the tears from her cheeks with his thumb.

"She's beautiful," Gillian mutters, wiping her face roughly with one hand, still clinging to Claire with the other.

Cal's worry lines soften ever so slightly as he glances down at the sleeping baby. "She is."

Then he puts his hands on Gillian's hips and guides her to the doorway. "You're exhausted, darling. Give me the baby and go back to bed. I'll be along in a moment."

Gillian reluctantly lets go of the baby (because who knows if she'll ever see her again?) and pads back to her bedroom. She pushes the door halfway closed, but leaves it open enough so she can see the light from the other room (Claire's room?). To shut the door would make it unreal again, and right now that's the last thing Gillian wants.

Funny, she thinks as she climbs into bed, how quickly her entire perspective changed. Ten minutes ago, she wanted nothing more than to wake up.

The light flicks off and Cal enters, pulling off his socks (he sleeps without his socks on, she never knew that) and crawling into bed. It is dark except for the moonlight streaming through the window; silent except for the wind moaning across the yard.

And then, then, Cal wraps his arm around Gillian's waist, and buries his face in her hair. She is tense, at first. (This cannot be happening, can it?) Slowly, however, she relaxes into his embrace. It is much later when she speaks.

"Cal?"

"Yes darling?" He mumbles, his voice heavy with sleep.

"You love me. Real or not real?"

She holds her breath as she awaits his answer. The silence is heavy (_much _too heavy) and this is so wrong and yet it feels _so right_.

"Real."

And she never wants to wake up.

And then the dream shifts (is this a dream? Oh god, please let it be real) and it is morning and she is standing in her kitchen, mug of coffee in hand. Sunlight streams through the window. Cal enters, the baby in his arms. He is beside Gillian in three quick strides.

"Good morning, darling," He murmurs, brushing his lips against her cheek.

"Morning," she smiles against his collarbone, stroking the hair at the back of his neck with her fingertips. Claire makes a small grunt of disapproval and Gillian laughs.

"She's hungry." The words are out of her mouth before she can think, and she hardly bothers to wonder how she suddenly knows this child's (her child's? _oh my god_) schedule, or lack thereof.

Cal nods in agreement and slides into a chair at the table, cradling Claire with one arm. Gillian goes to the cabinets and pulls open various doors, fixing a quick bottle for the baby's hungry stomach.

And even as she moves, (_hurries_, when Claire starts to wail) she is observing how familiar these movements seem, how practiced. And yet this is all so unknown (so extraordinary, so _wonderful_). Cal here, really _with _her, sitting at her kitchen table like he owns the place (Which, maybe, in this reality, he does) and it's all so natural. It all _belongs _like this, like pieces of a puzzle finally coming together.

Then the pitter-patter of feet dashing down the hall stops her thought process altogether.

It's a whole five minutes, she thinks, before she registers what she sees. Another child, a young boy, (maybe four years old?) is standing in the doorway, his hair mussed with sleep, his power rangers pajamas twisted, two fingers in his mouth. And, oh my _god_, he looks exactly like Cal… except he doesn't, exactly. Because there's something else there, too (someone else). And that's when she notices his jaw line. And the sprinkling of freckles across his nose. And his hands that curl in small fists at his side (_her _hands, she would know them anywhere).

"Aiden, take your fingers out of your mouth," Cal reprimands from the table, where Claire is slurping happily on her bottle.

Aiden obeys reluctantly and then dashes to Gillian. "Mommy!" He cries as he barrels into her legs, practically knocking her over in his eagerness. To Gillian his voice sounds distant, far away, but the pounding of his heart is very, very loud in her ears. She grabs his hands and marvels at them; bends down and studies his face, rubs his freckles with her thumb.

Aiden's smile vanishes, replaced with a look of confusion and concern. Silently, he reaches out and touches Gillian's face with his fingertip. The strongest lightning bolt in the world could not have contained as much electricity as his little finger, pressing gently, just below her eye. In that moment, something bolts her to him, a steel cable, centering her universe around this tiny person. She glances at Claire. Two tiny people. And Cal, Cal, _Cal_…

Aiden holds up the fingertip for Gillian to see. It is wet with her tears.

"I'm fine," she assures him. "I'm wonderful."

They go to the zoo, though the temperature has dropped and the wind still howls. Ironically, the sun beats down, as strong as ever.

"It will rain soon," Cal murmurs, glancing at the sky as they pass the zebra exhibit. Gillian follows his gaze and wonders, because there's not a cloud in the sky, but she says nothing. Aiden neither notices nor cares about the weather. He dashes from exhibit to exhibit, laughing and pointing at each one gleefully. Claire, unimpressed, has fallen asleep in her stroller.

The place is deserted, excepting the animals and themselves, but Gillian is surprised to discover it doesn't bother her. Nothing could bother her, she thinks, on a day like this. Cal threads his hand into hers and she is so utterly content it _hurts_, right in that space below her heart.

Somehow, Gillian's not quite sure exactly, they end up on a picnic table in the zoo's gardens, eating peanut butter sandwiches and goldfish. Aiden entertains himself by making two of his goldfish fight each other to the death. Claire has awoken and bounces happily on her mother's lap.

As Gillian breathes in Claire's sweet scent, she feels a lump in her throat that has nothing to do with the peanut butter. Her eyes burn and she wishes Cal weren't looking at her quite so intently, because she cannot cry in front of him (Why is she crying so much today?). She looks down onto the top of Claire's bald head, blinking rapidly and feigning interest in a knot on the tabletop. Cal politely says nothing, though she's sure he knows. He always knows.

Suddenly they are home, but Gillian's sure something else happened in between the peanut butter and putting Claire to bed. She's just not sure what it is. Aiden throws a fit because he will _not _take a bath, even though he's got peanut butter and _something _else in his hair. Cal eventually bribes him with the promise of threebedtime stories, and Gillian retreats to her bedroom to relax.

Outside, the wind howls, but still no rain.

Cal comes in almost an hour later and pulls off his socks before crawling into bed. Gillian turns to him with a smile, which he returns, but something's off.

"What?" She asks, rubbing his arm gently.

"Nothing," he replies, kissing her forehead and collapsing onto his pillow. "It will rain soon."

Gillian still doesn't know what _that _means, but she's starting to get the feeling he's talking about more than just the weather. She rolls over onto her stomach and props her chin on her hands.

"Cal…" she whispers, her voice lilting up and then back down in a singsong way.

Cal just smiles and she sees it again, that _something_ behind his eyes.

"Love you, Gill," he says. Then he turns over and flicks off the lamp. In the dark, his silhouette is unfamiliar and strange, and Gillian doesn't like it. She grabs his arm firmly and pulls him closer to her, peering into his shadowed face.

"I just…" she says. "I have to…"

Cal looks at her questioningly. But what? What does she have to do? And before what? Who says this is ending now?

She leans forward, her face an inch from his, their noses bumping. "You love me. Real or not real?"

Cal studies her, his eyes flicking down to her lips and across and up, up, up to her forehead, then down to her eyes once more. He smiles, that only-for-her, secretive smile. And it occurs to her, in this moment, that he hasn't kissed her on the lips. Not in this reality. Not yet.

Then a thunderous sound shatters the darkness.

Gillian flies into a sitting position, her heart hammering, her palms sweaty. Her neck is sore, her legs are stiff, and she is clad in hose, a dress and a jacket. She is sitting in her office at the Lightman Group. The clock on the wall says 11:45 P.M.

And outside, it has begun to rain.

* * *

Dr. Cal Lightman, of the Lightman Group, strides down the hallway, reveling in the silence that surrounds him. It isn't often that it is just he in this big building, just his footsteps that pound this familiar route. He follows the path to Gillian's office, not bothering to think about the already memorized way.

She is lying on her couch as he enters, in the place somewhere between sleep and reality. She has not noticed him yet, and he uses the time to observe her. Her makeup is smeared, her clothes are twisted and wrinkled, her shoes kicked off in a corner. Her hair is mussed and her cheek is red and creased from lying against the pillow.

And she is so beautiful that he cannot breathe.

He chooses to make himself known then, doesn't wait for her to notice him, standing in the doorway. He strides forward and slides in beside her on the couch, pulling her feet into his lap in one fluid movement.

"Cal," she murmurs sleepily.

There is something else there, in her voice, some hesitation that he cannot place. If this were reversed, if she were sitting here, waiting for him to wake up, he knows she would instantly recognize the strange characteristic laced through the single syllable. But instead he is here, her feet in his lap, so he simply settles for brushing her hair out of her eyes, a practiced ritual that makes her smile.

"Hello, love," he whispers to her.

Gillian sighs and sits up. Cal reluctantly lets go of her feet as she pulls them away, tucking them beneath her. She leans forward slightly, and he recognizes her discussion face. He copies her movement, leaning forward, making it clear to her that she has his full attention.

She doesn't speak for a while, just studies the rain-spattered window. Finally her voice breaks through the lamp lit silence.

"Do you believe in premonitions?"

Cal frowns, the question disconcerting him. "What, you mean like when you have a dream and then later it comes true?"

She weaves her fingers together and puts her elbows on her knees. "Yeah."

"I can't say I've ever experienced one, love."

"Hypothetically speaking, then."

"Hypothetically speaking," Cal repeats, resting his head against his fist and studying her. "Do you?"

"Classic deflection," she murmurs against her tangled fingers.

Cal laughs lightly and leans forward.

(He's close, much closer than would normally be considered polite and, randomly, she wonders if he really _does _sleep with his socks off.)

"I don't know," he answers honestly. "Do you?"

"I don't know," Gillian replies regretfully. And even in the midst of this, even when it's quarter 'til midnight and he's _dead tired_ and his best friend's face is _this close _to his, he mentally takes note of her body language (eyes down and then away) and writes it off as shame.

Gillian glances out the window and hugs herself. "It's raining."

Cal nods, even though he doesn't really understand, because Gillian has never been one to point out the obvious.

This all feels so wrong, mostly because Cal cannot place what is off about it. It's like a shadow of something; like a poorly designed replica, helping you to remember what you lost, but not _real_ or even _true_. He hates that, because he unravels lies all the time. But he's getting tangled up in this one.

"Are you ready to go home, love?" He asks finally, when the silence has become too long, too filled with things unsaid. Gillian looks at him like he has just materialized out of thin air, like previous to this moment she had been completely alone.

"You go on," she says finally, still studying him like she's never seen him before. It unnerves him. "I just have to finish a few things up."

"It's quarter 'til twelve," he points out.

"I _know_, Cal," she sighs, glaring at him pointedly. "I'm not a baby."

And for a second she is there again, the old Gillian, (the real one) and he feels better, even if she _is _annoyed. But then the moment is over and the strange Gillian replaces her again.

"I'll see you later," she says firmly, and he recognizes it as a dismissal. Obediently, he stands and walks to the door, but she stops him with her voice, calling out his name. (How long has she had such power over him? _Forever_, a voice in his head whispers)

"Cal?"

"Yeah?"

"You believe that dreams come true, though; don't you?"

Now that's a screwed question and she knows it. And he hates standing here, watching this poorly made replica replace his best friend. It's all too fake; like smoke and mirrors and trick lighting. He says the only thing he can think of.

"I think we have to make our own dreams come true, darling."

It's too cliché, but what the hell can he say? When she's sitting there, all blue eyes and innocence? Even if it is fake. He can't tell her that dreams are for dreamers, and they left the land of dreams somewhere back in childhood; before alcohol and broken hearts and one too many mistakes shoved it all away.

"Yeah," she whispers finally. "Night, Cal."

He waves, because for some odd reason he can't speak past the lump in his throat.

He's not home five minutes before she shows up at his door. The rain has stopped, but the clouds still cover the moon and thunder and lighting battle in the distance. He opens the door and thunder shatters, closer than before, and then she is in his arms; her lips on his, her hands like frantic spiders on his back, trapping the electricity of the storm outside between them. It billows and billows and finally breaks, and he steps back, breathing heavily.

"Gillian?"

She just shakes her head and presses her lips to his again.

(This should feel like her dream. Why doesn't this feel like her dream?)

This feels like a dream, too bright and blurry around the edges to be real, so he hates how real his reaction is to her tongue in his mouth, her hands in his hair. It's clear she wants this (and he wants it too, has always wanted it. No use trying to deny that, is there?) so why is he having such a hard time dealing? Because this feels too much like a one-night stand? Because Gillian might as well be Poppy, or Clara, or Wallowski for the way she's acting?

(A voice inside his head whispers, _because your first time with her wasn't supposed to feel like this_.)

And there it is, staring him in the face: the line. Because he thought he would be the one to finally break it. (But that's not what's bothering him, is it? No, not really.) Because a part of him knows it's against some _rule _that neither of them created to cross it at all. (He never cared about breaking rules.) Because when they finally did, when they finally had the courage to step over that line, to erase it, obliterate it, throw it away, he thought it would feel amazing. (_That's it_, the voice whispers.)

But it doesn't. It still feels like that trick of the eye, still too much glitter and show to get to the heart of anything.

But by the time he reaches this conclusion, Gillian is in his bed, breathless and flushed and _waiting_. So he does again what he will always do to save her from them, from this. He lies to her.

Much later, in the darkness of Cal's bedroom, when the sheets smell of sex and Gillian's perfume, he speaks.

"Not that I mind," he murmurs as he presses soft kisses to her collarbone, "But what the _hell _was that, love?"

The bed shifts and dips as Gillian moves beneath the sheets, and then she is straddling him, her thighs squeezing his hips lightly. She smiles at his sharp intake of breath.

"Just taking your advice, darling," she whispers, her lips brushing his ear. "I'm taking my dreams into my own hands."

And then there isn't much talking for a while.

At half past three in the morning, Gillian is the one to speak first. She crawls over to him and rests her forehead against his. Their mingled breath is loud in his ears.

"It will rain soon," she whispers. And part of him wonders why that sounds more like a question than a statement. She opens her eyes and stares at him, her face shadowed and hard to read in the darkness.

"You love me. Real or not real."

"Real," he promises, clutching her hips tightly, burying her against him. Because that much is true. No matter how many lies separate them, he will always love her enough to keep coming back, keep untangling them, keeping adjusting them to work in her favor. Even if this is just a poorly made replica of what it's supposed to be.

(She knows, and she tries to tell him. She wonders if he'll ever believe her, completely.

He's asleep in her arms when the purple light of dawn creeps through the window and the rain begins again. Listening to it beat a steady tattoo against the window, she promises herself that what she's feeling isn't disappointment.)


End file.
